Kevin Furlong is the first to be questioned. Archer studies him from a monitor in the room opposite and feels a knot in her stomach as she takes in the dimensions of the interview room, which seems stupidly small, dark and enclosed. Maybe the position of the camera makes it seem that way. She hopes. She absentmindedly massages her neck and tries to focus on Furlong. He is dressed in a black and grey Champion tracksuit and slouches on the chair listening to his solicitor, a dour man called Smith, whisper some final words. Furlong looks older than his twenty-five years. Unlike his chum, John Tighe, Furlong knows the police system. He is a seasoned pro when it comes to arrests and interviews.

‘Ready?’ asks Quinn, holding a manila folder.

Archer hesitates and blinks. ‘Yes.’

She lets Quinn enter first and stops as the door closes behind her. The room is cold and stale; the earthy reek of bitter weed lingering on Furlong’s clothes chokes the air from the small space. Archer feels her head swim. A memory surfaces: her small hands scrambling for the light as a trapdoor closes firmly, locking her in the earth, shutting her away from her dead father, her grandfather, her grandmother, her life, their lives, everything she knew. She tries to take a deep breath but hears the echo of her twelve-year-old self screaming in the darkness. Her throat clenches as the walls and ceiling seem to close in on her. She can feel Quinn, Furlong and Smith watching her with judgemental eyes as she unravels before them. A cold sweat forms on her skin and she backs out of the room and into the corridor.

‘Fuck! Fuck!’ she whispers.

The corridor is bright, wide and long and helps her relax.

Quinn emerges and closes the door behind him. ‘Ma’am, are you all right?’

Archer composes herself and smiles. ‘Yes . . . yes of course. Could you just give me a minute?’

Quinn’s eyes try to read her face. He is unconvinced. ‘Of course. I’ll go ahead and start. Come in when you’re ready.’

As the door closes Archer leans against the wall and hears Quinn starting the interview. She crouches on the floor.

Pull yourself together, for Chrissake. Focus! Forget about the past. That room isn’t tiny.

She takes two deep breaths through her nose, turns the handle, steps into the room and sits at the table beside Quinn. Furlong stares at her with a shark-like grin. He believes he has the upper hand. Archer recognises that expression and bristles.

‘For the benefit of the recording, Detective Inspector Archer has just entered the room,’ says Quinn. ‘OK, recommencement of the interview with Kevin Furlong. I am showing Kevin an ANPR photo clearly showing him in the driving seat of a black Range Rover. Kevin, did you steal the Range Rover you are driving in this picture?’

‘No comment,’ replies Furlong, his eyes never leaving Archer’s.